what it prefers, because that has no bearing on what will be. I do not think Joboam cares what I prefer. I think he believes I will marry him in the spring.'
'Why do you tell me?'
It came out harsher than he meant it to. She turned her face from him and he saw her stiffen. Cursing their mothers and their wagging tongues, he maneuvered his skis to where he could reach and touch her shoulders. She turned to him abruptly and he embraced her awkwardly. Little Elsa. Not even as tall as Lasse. Childhood friend. A good-hearted, sturdy woman, independent and skilled, capable of taking care of herself.
But that was no longer enough. Her responsibilities were more than she could shoulder, through no fault of her own. He remembered, vaguely, her two older brothers. They had been close to his own age, and as small as Elsa. They had not survived the Plague Summer. He patted her awkwardly and felt her shoulders shake once in a great sob.
'It's going to be all right,' he told her. Knowing it wouldn't. Instead of one woman taking the responsibilities of a family of three, it would be the two of them taking the responsibilities of two households. His own mother was starting to feel her years. Or three households. He supposed they would have to have a tent of their own, and their own string of harkar. Their own cooking utensils and bedding, their own pulkor and meat rack.
He reined his mind viciously from the list. 'I'll speak to Joboam. I'll tell him we have an understanding. That will put an end to him bothering you.'
'I can't ask you to do that!'
'You don't have to. I'm asking you, aren't I? To join with me,' he pointed out gently.
Relief made her tears break out anew. She put her face against his chest and leaned on him heavily. The top of her head did not even reach his chin. 'You say so little. I had begun to think you did not care, would never speak. My mother kept saying not to worry, that you were like your father. Shy. But I was so afraid. I love you, Heckram. I'll be a good wife to you.'
Hampered by the skis and their heavy winter clothing, he patted her back awkwardly. 'You're a good woman, Elsa,' he said, carefully choosing honest words.
'Joboam doesn't deserve a woman like you.' And she deserves more than carefully truthful compliments, he told himself. He tried to find more he could give her. 'I'll be a good husband to you.' He felt the words bind him as he spoke them, and his heart sank beneath them.
'Will you come to my tent tonight?' she asked softly. It was not an unusual question for a woman of the herdfolk. With or without the assumption of marriage, she was free to invite him. Nor was it the first time she had let him know he would be welcome there. But he felt the question like a wolf feels the thud of the second arrow.
'No,' he said quickly. And then, more gently: 'In our own tent, when I have traded for the hides and you have sewn them. Then we will be together, as is fitting.'
'You never used to mind,' she teased him gently, her face against his chest still.
'Mossy hillside or grassy meadow, it was all one to you. Even in the snow that time.
Remember?' She turned bright eyes up to him, challenging him playfully. But she found him staring up at the sky as it darkened over the forested hillsides. His mouth was solemn.
'Heckram?' she asked gently.
'Bror has been wanting me to help him make a new pulkor. I've been telling him that I was too busy hunting. But, perhaps if I agree, he will trade me tent hides for the work.'
He glanced down to find her eyes uncertain. 'Don't worry,' he assured her quickly. 'I'll find ways to get the things we will need. You won't lack what you need, Elsa.' In the gathering darkness, he stooped to kiss her carefully. Her arms went quickly around his neck, holding his face close to hers as her kiss became warmer. Her weight dragged at him, and his back bent as under a burden.
KERLEW: THE POUCH
So Tillu had gone hunting without him. Good. He didn't care. A shaman didn't need to know how to hunt. A shaman had better things to do with his time. He didn't really care if he never learned how to hunt. She could keep her secrets and he would keep his.
Kerlew sat down carefully by the fire, his pouch beside him. He poked at the fire with a narrow willow wand. The peeled stick gleamed white against his sooty hands.
He held the tip of it in the coals, watched it blacken and then suddenly flare alight. He lifted it carefully and held it as he would hold a flower with a long stem. He smiled upon it lovingly. It was short and fat if he held the stick still, long and thin if he moved it. He stopped moving it and there was the short fat flame again. Now he gently waved it, and it was long and thin. After a long time, he remembered that there was more to this game than the flame on the tip of the wand. He stared into the flame, opening his eyes wide to the light as the old shaman had taught him. He blinked involuntarily against the light, and started at what he saw with his eyes closed. He closed them again and stared. Pale wolf eyes inside his eyelids. Wolf looking into him as he looked out.
Wolf watching, coming to him? He shivered deliciously and opened his eyes to the flame again. The bright, yellow, dancing flame. He brought it close to his face until he felt the heat of the tiny flame against his lips. He stared deep into the flame. 'Carp?' he whispered questioningly.
In an instant the flame was gone, leaving only a thin streamer of spiraling smoke.
Kerlew sighed. 'He's still angry at me.' He threw the stick onto the fire. 'He's still angry at me,' he repeated dismally. 'For going up instead of down.' He stared into the fire for a long time. His stomach felt heavy and his throat felt tight and sore. 'Mother!' he called out. Tillu, I think I'm getting sick. Tillu!' Then he remembered she wasn't there. She had gone hunting and left him here alone, and Carp was angry with him.
He sighed again and rubbed at his face. He wished the stranger man, the spoon man, would come again. He liked how big he was, and how he didn't hit. And he smiled at Kerlew. Usually the ones that didn't hit didn't look at him either. He pursed his lips and squinched his eyes, straining to group the ones who didn't hit but did smile at him.
There was ... the spoon man and ... Carp. He smiled. It was the first time he had put them together in his mind, and it pleased him. The spoon man and Carp. Too bad Tillu didn't like them.
Tillu. The fire. He looked at it in sudden trepidation. As he feared, it was burning low. He scrabbled to his feet and hurried to the woodpile by the door. He brought back an armload and let it crash down onto the coals. The fire sizzled and sparks leaped out onto the bare earth around the hearth. Steam and smoke rose as the new wood began to catch fire.
Smoke. If only he had gone down instead of up with the smoke. If he had gone down, he would have a spirit brother now. And Carp would be with him, and he would be a powerful shaman. If he had gone down instead of up, he wouldn't have to tend the fire. All people would respect him, as they respected Carp. They would bring him tongues and livers, gifts of soft furs and new tools. No one would ever hit him again. And if they did? His yellow eyes narrowed. Then he would curse them, would take their hunting luck, would make their women die in childbirth, would make their meat spoil and their children sicken. Yes! Then they would know Kerlew the shaman, would know his power and treat him well. Even his mother would hurry to build up his fire for him, to bring him the best of her kills. Not that she often brought home good kills. Usually it was rabbit or squirrel, little red-meat animals with thin hides. Kerlew liked meat that was edged with white fat, big pieces of meat he could grip with both hands when he ate. He held up his hands, pretending to grip a big piece of meat, and grinned. When he was shaman, he would eat big pieces of meat and wipe his greasy hands on his hair to make it shine. Carp did that. Carp. Carp was angry.
The thought sobered him and the smile faded from his face. His hands fell into his lap and he stared once more into the flames. Maybe he should try to see Carp in a flame on a willow wand ... No, he had already tried that. What else?
He reached for his pouch and untied the strip of leather that held the mouth shut.
Then he put his nose and mouth against the opening and breathed deeply. He liked the smell of the pouch. It smelled of tanned leather and his mother's herbs. For a while he amused himself by taking a deep breath of the delicious smell and watching the leather sack go flat. When he breathed out, the sack would puff up like a fat little rabbit. It was very funny. He giggled into the sack; it sounded different from when he giggled out loud. It made him laugh even more. Finally, when his stomach hurt from laughing, he took the sack away from his nose and mouth. He
